The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ve decided that my ribs ache whether I’m sitting at home or out doing something, so I’d rather keep myself busy.”


“Well, take a hansom cab then,” she said. “It’s too far to walk and you’ll not want to risk a crowded trolley.”

I laughed, realizing how little she knew of the city. “You’d not get a cab down most of those streets,” I said. “All those pushcarts make it impossible. Besides, I think I prefer not to be jolted around over the cobbles. I’ll walk across to Ninth Street and we’ll take the Third Avenue El. There’s a stop right there at Fulton Street where Nuala works.”

“The elevated?” Her face grew wary. “My dear, are you sure you want to face that again so soon?”

“Don’t worry. There are no curves on this track,” I said, sounding more carefree than I felt. I wished she hadn’t brought that up. I wished she hadn’t reminded me that Daniel suspected I was the intended target of the crash. In which case someone could be watching me and plotting when to strike again. It made staying home and not getting involved in Daniel’s business seem like such a safe alternative. But I had pushed myself into things I didn’t want to do before. And I wanted to catch this man as much as Daniel did.

“Bring me your hairbrush and let’s do your hair, Bridie,” I said. “You need to look respectable when we meet your relatives.”

Bridie had been holding Liam and handed him to me when he started to cry. I, in turn, handed him to Daniel’s mother. “Would you mind looking after him for a little while?” I said. “I really don’t want to bring him with me to that part of the city. Too much disease always going around there.”

“Of course,” she said. “And you’re in no condition to carry him.” She looked down at him fondly. “Come on, my darling. You and I will see if there are any of those jam tarts left in the larder.”

And off he went quite happily with his grandmother, without a single look back at me.

I put on my hat and took Bridie’s hand as we stepped out into bright sunshine. It was warm for September, and I wasn’t looking forward to facing the heat and noise of the Lower East Side. But there was no going back now, even though Bridie looked about as unenthusiastic as I felt.

“I don’t like those boys, my cousins,” she said. “They are rough, and they tease me.”

“I don’t like them much either,” I said, giving a conspiratorial wink. “But we’ll do our duty and not stay long.”

“Do you think Cousin Nuala might have news of my dada?” she asked.

“I don’t know, my darling. But it’s worth seeing her, just on the off chance, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She nodded, convincing herself. “I’d do anything to know if they’re all right.”

We climbed the steps to the Third Avenue El station. As the train came rumbling in I had a moment of anxiety. Could I really get on board without worrying that something would happen to me? I looked up and down the platform, but there were only a few housewives on their way from shopping, mothers with young children, and nobody who looked furtive or threatening. I wished I had taken more notice of the man who knocked into me, making me miss that train. It might have been a complete coincidence, but as a detective I’d learned not to believe in coincidences. The train came to a halt and I ushered Bridie on board, then hauled myself up. As we moved off, I tried to picture the man. He’d been young, I was sure. Cap or hat? What kind of jacket? I closed my eyes, but all that came back to me was a blur of running feet. Dark hair. Dark jacket. But not a businessman. A student? Yes, possibly more like a student. Which of course made sense—a student, late for his next class and not even aware that he had bumped me as he dashed for an empty compartment. However, this also made me think of Simon Grossman, and a killer who was brazen enough to drop cyanide into his coffee. Could students and their activities have something to do with this crime after all? Was someone playing a cruel joke on Daniel?

The moment we disembarked from the El, I could tell where we were by the smell. As we walked down Fulton Street, the odor of the fish market wafted toward us until it grew overwhelming.

“What’s that horrible smell?” Bridie demanded. “Do we have to go this way?”

“It’s the fish market at the bottom of Fulton Street,” I said. “And this is actually where we’re heading.”

“I thought we were going to visit Cousin Nuala,” she said peevishly.

“We are. I don’t know her current address, but I do know that she works at the fish market.”